


Unto You

by AmberDiceless



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale and Crowley are together but that's not the focus, Christian Imagery and Themes, Christmas, Conversations with God, Crowley's Fall (Good Omens), Crowley-centric, Gen, God Loves Them, Gratuitous Nativity Commentary, Light Angst with a Happy Ending, No Beta We Die Like Man-Shaped Beings, Sorta-Redemption, Ρhilosophical Μusings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:40:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21741103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmberDiceless/pseuds/AmberDiceless
Summary: "There's only God, moving in mysterious ways and nottalkingto any of us!"Sometimes, She does answer Her children's prayers.  Even the unintentional ones.Happy holidays, all!Thanks toikipiefor theItalian translation.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 164





	Unto You

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Italiano available: [Unto You - (Italian Translation)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24419944) by [ikipie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikipie/pseuds/ikipie)



> This story is meant less as a definitive explanation or justification for God's actions, than an attempt to organize my own thoughts on the subject, and to call attention to some questions I feel are pretty important but that often get overlooked.
> 
> In particular: Where would Crowley (and Aziraphale and the world) have wound up if he _hadn't_ Fallen? To just what extent (if any) can an end justify the means, and how terrible does an experience have to be before there can be no possible justification for allowing it to happen? How much does the greater good outweigh the well-being of an individual? How much would our perception of these things change if we knew everything there is to know, or if we were responsible for all of Creation?
> 
> I'm aware that some of the answers offered in this fic as it currently stands may not be entirely satisfactory, and I may change the story or post a new version if I'm able to reconcile them more to my own liking. But in the meantime, I hope, at least, it succeeds in sparking some thought on these same problems, and perhaps prompts some other fans to look for better answers of their own.

“'s a damn shame,” Crowley muttered, taking a swig from the bottle in his hand.

As a rule, he tried to avoid schmaltzy Christmas displays whenever possible, but it could be hard to get away from them when the holiday season was in full swing, as it was now, a few days out from the 25th. The lights over Regent Street were particularly egregious offenders, but the entire London area was lousy with sparkly, glittery, green-red-and-gold rubbish, just as it had been every year for longer than he cared to contemplate.

Even Aziraphale's bookshop wasn't immune, though the angel knew just as well as Crowley did that the Christ hadn't been born in December, and embraced the secular spirit of the holiday to an extent that ought to be embarrassing for any self-respecting angel. At least the antique decorations and tree he favored for the place were relatively _tasteful._

The Nativity display that Crowley--wandering the streets alone in a fit of curmudgeonly masochism that was quite normal for him this time of year--had found himself surveying wasn't really all that bad, to be honest. The figures weren't plastic, at least, and whoever had made them had put some real effort into their artistry.

Pity that anonymous artist had no bloody clue what Mary, Joseph, their peculiar company of guests, or the little One Himself had actually _looked_ like. Even the sodding donkey wasn't right, for Whoever's sake.

“Her hair's all wrong,” Crowley observed to no one in particular—or to Someone he occasionally addressed with little hope of being heard, even if he was just a touch more charitably inclined now since the world hadn't gone poof, nor he nor Aziraphale either. “She wasn't blonde, or fair-skinned. Not all tall and willowy and serene like that, either. I s'pose they must've felt like they needed to fudge the details a bit. Virgin mother of God lying there all sweaty and bloody in the straw wouldn't make for such a charming tableau, I'm sure.

“Old Yosef, now, he's a bit better. But he had a lot more grey.” He paused for another drink, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and adding, “Not nearly that calm, either. Poor bastard was beside himself. Couldn't really blame 'im—hauled halfway across the country for some stupid census, no vacancies, new wife goes into labor in a stable with a kid who wasn't his. Not even a midwife to be had, and what the hell did _he_ know about birthing babies?” Crowley shook his head glumly. “Damn good thing for everyone the whole thing was Ordained, and there was an angel on hand to make sure nothing went too far wrong. Even if _he_ was freaking out almost as badly as the carpenter. Four thousand years in, you'd think he would've seen that sort of thing a few times before.

“Funny how that turned into a whole glorious choir filling the skies with hosannas when they wrote it down later, though, innit?” He chuckled cynically. “I wonder if that was just humans embellishing things the way they do, or if Gabriel and his lot decided to do a bit of creative historical revision. Wouldn't exactly paint Heaven in the most flattering light, would it, if they'd put down that only the ex-Guardian of the Eastern Gate even bothered to show up, and almost tossed his proverbial cookies when the little lady's water broke?”

He gestured emphatically at the manger, now thoroughly (if a bit soggily) indignant. “An' the kid—blond again, and hasn't anybody who's ever made one of these bloody things actually _seen_ a newborn baby? They're not that big! And not anything like that...eh...well, _dignified._ Most times they're sort of a blotchy plum color, and their head's all pointy, and the face is...well, it's....sort of...”

“Squished,” a soft voice supplied helpfully from somewhere slightly behind and to his right. It sounded amused. And familiar, though for half a heartbeat he couldn't quite place it.

Freezing in place—he'd been completely oblivious to this woman's approach, and  _ that _ was a terrifying realization—Crowley didn't answer.

“'For unto you is born this day in the city of David a savior, which is Christ the Lord,'” the newcomer continued, stepping up alongside him and regarding the display with a wistful smile. “He  _ was _ kind of a funny-looking, scrunched-up little thing. And  _ loud.  _ I don't know why that surprised me.”

She turned and tipped her head back to regard the much taller demon with a bright, penetrating gaze. “Hi, Crowley.”

Ageless eyes of no color any human can conceive smiled up at him from a face framed by hair that could have belonged to any woman ever born. Later, Crowley couldn't have described Her if his life depended on it. Nevertheless, he knew Her, just as surely as any other child has ever known the One who brought them into the world.

His heart seemed to seize up in his chest; he lost all sense of where he was and which way was up, and for one vertiginous moment, he thought he might actually faint. When She smiled a little sadly and took his arm, steering him gently toward a nearby bench and urging him to sit, he allowed himself to be led as docilely as a lamb.

It wasn't until She settled down on the bench beside him, watching him with an unreadable look on Her face, and gently removed the bottle from his hands to set it on the ground near his feet, that he finally found his voice.

“Them,” he croaked, and added when She tilted Her eyebrows inquisitively, “Unto  _ them _ He was born, you mean.”

There were at least fifty thousand other things he could have started with, but for the moment he was sticking with the topic at hand and the remark which--coming from Her, personally--had stung rather badly.

Redemption, after all, was Her gift to humans alone.

_Unforgivable, that's what I am._

“Oh?” She tilted Her head quizzically to one side. (That had to be an affectation, he thought. She never misunderstood  _ anyone.) _ “Not that long ago, you were saying 'all of us.' Don't tell me you've changed your mind already?'

“What...?” he said blankly, blinking his eyes slowly once. “Oh! No. I haven't—I mean I wasn't—I meant it, but I didn't mean it like _ that.  _ Expect it, that is. What I think you mean, I mean... _ is _ that what you mean...?”

He trailed off weakly, bewildered and unable to work out how he felt about being here, right now, having this conversation, with _Her._ Broadly speaking, he seemed to be settling on somewhere just south of excited and just north of sick to his stomach, but there was all sorts of other complicated stuff mixed up in there, muddying things to the point that he couldn't make sense of any of it.

“Not exactly. Not in the way you're thinking,” She said, looking back across the street at the Nativity. “What _was_ it he said that got everyone so upset?”

Crowley followed Her gaze. “'Be kind to each other,'” he answered immediately. That was one conversation he'd never forget.

“Yes. You remembered.” She favored him with a dazzling smile. “It wasn't your job to do that, but you did anyway.

“He loved them, you know,” She added. “All of them. Everything you showed him, all the kingdoms of the world—everything he'd been sent to save, but that he wouldn't get to have if he stayed on the path appointed for him. He loved Earth and humanity enough to give it all up. Just like you did.”

“Oh...” Crowley glanced away, reddening. “But that's...” He floundered, unwilling to contradict Her to Her face. “I mean, don't get me wrong, I did. I _do._ But—I'm sure You must know that isn't why I stayed. I would have run away, if...”

“If Aziraphale hadn't stayed?” She nodded, still smiling. “Why was that, do you think? He could have packed it all in and followed orders, gone back to Heaven and rejoined the Host. After all, he thought Heaven would win, didn't he?”

“Yeah, he did. Not that it would have mattered. Nobody _really_ wins a battle like that. But he was dead-set on stopping it, even if it meant taking it up with You personally.” Crowley shook his head.

“Because?” God prompted gently.

“Well, because he's a stubborn arse.” Crowley shrugged. “Because he loves it all too, and thought it was the right thing to do, I suppose. Because...because I...”

He stammered to a halt, reeling all over again as the answer hit him.

“...because I'd convinced him,” he finished softly, looking back to Her. “I told him we couldn't let it all end. That we could stop it. And he listened to me.” He chuckled softly. “You really do work in mysterious ways.”

“The accusation has been made.” She grinned conspiratorially. “But I can't take credit for that one. You taught him to ask questions, Crowley, and what to do when the answers were all wrong. The part you two played may not seem large, but without you, Hell would soon have realized they had the wrong child.”

Crowley paled a bit at that. “They'd have found Adam. Might have taken them a while, without the book, but they'd have done it. He would have become their creature.” He smiled ruefully. “And here I thought asking questions was what got me in trouble in the first place. He, ah...” He swallowed, hating the tremor that had crept into his words. “Aziraphale's all right, though, isn't he? I mean, he isn't—he won't--”

God laid Her hand on his arm, shaking Her head. “He isn't going to Fall,” She said firmly. “And if he ever did, it wouldn't be your fault. No one can cause that to happen to someone else, Crowley, and no one ever Fell because they loved too much.”

As the demon let his breath out in a shaky rush, shoving his sunglasses up to rub impatiently at his eyes, She added, “And since we're on the subject, just for the record--you didn't Fall for asking questions.”

“I didn't?” Startled, he let the shades drop back into place, then took them off and stared at Her openly. “Wh...what _was_ it, then? I didn't swear allegiance to Lucifer or fight with the Legion. I barely even understood what all the kerfuffle was _about._ What did I do to deserve that kind of punishment?”

She shook Her head, regarding him somberly. “I know this is going to be difficult to hear. But it wasn't a punishment, Crowley.” And at his incredulous huff, She added, “I mean it. Tell me, where do you think you'd be right now, if you _hadn't_ Fallen?”

He stopped dead, angry accusations dying on his lips as he was forced to consider the one question it had never occurred to him to ask.

“I don't know,” he admitted at last, looking up at the evening sky. “Up there somewhere, I suppose, still making stars and building nebulas. Or back in Heaven, maybe. Goose-stepping in time to the celestial harmonies.” He repressed a shudder at the thought.

“But not here,” God said. “Not on Earth, with Aziraphale.”

Crowley shook his head slowly. “I might never even have met him,” he murmured, wide-eyed.

“You weren't happy as an angel,” She said. “You shut me out--didn't want what I was offering anymore. You were yearning for something different. So I put you on the path that would allow you to find it.”

“What, through Hell?” he croaked, dismayed. "No offense, but, Author of all Creation and that's the best You could come up with? Couldn't You have at least skipped the boiling sulfur?”

“Hell was only the first stop,” She said. “Time didn't exist at that point, I know. But how long do you feel that you were there? Subjectively?”

Crowley scrubbed at his lower face, reluctantly thinking that over. “I dunno. Too bloody long. Felt like an eternity, while I was living it.” He dropped his eyes, leaning forward on his knees and lacing his fingers together.

“Looking back on it now, though...not that long, I guess,” he admitted. “Not compared to being up here.” He glanced up at Her, feeling raw inside. “You couldn't have explained all this before now?”

“I had all of Creation to think about, Crowley. You're an important part of it, but only part,” She said softly. “If you'd known, it would have changed things.”

“Ah, yeah. Of course. Couldn't go bollocksing up that Ineffable Plan, right?” He smiled humorlessly. “I sound bitter, don't I? Sorry about that. I think I get what you're saying, though. Mostly, at least. Still just not too clear on whether you're trying to tell me that I'm...” He clasped his hands together in a white-knuckled grip and cleared his throat, not looking at Her. “Whether I'm forgiven, or not.”

“It's not a question of me forgiving you,” She said, resting Her hand in the middle of his bent back, and Crowley shut his eyes. Superficially, it was small and warm and felt rather nice. On another level, far removed from the physical, though, he could feel the immense _weight_ of Her Presence, and a subliminal thrum of power singing to something small and lonely inside him that had known only silence since before time began. “All you've ever needed to do, if you want me back in your life, is decide that you do.”

“What, just like that?” He laughed, short, sharp and painful. “Click my heels together three times and say 'There's no place like home'? It can't really be that easy.”

“Easy? Crowley,” She gave a small tug at his arm, and he straightened up and turned to look at Her. “It's taken more than six thousand years and a near-Apocalypse for you to start asking the _right_ questions so that we can even be having this conversation.”

“So it's all my own fault then, is what you're saying,” he said flatly.

“No. I'm not the least bit interested in placing blame.” Something in Her tone reminded him pointedly just Who he was talking to, and he glanced away, abashed. But She put a hand under his chin and turned him gently back toward Her, meeting his golden-eyed gaze frankly.

“You wouldn't have heard what I was saying to you before. You weren't ready,” She told him. “But you're starting to be, now. So I came to tell you: I'm here. I have _always_ been here.

“When you'd pray to me, I was listening. When you were in pain, I hurt with you. When you found joy, I rejoiced for you. I've waited a long long time for it to occur to you that there's even a chance you might be able to trust me after all. That one day, _you_ might forgive _me,”_ She said. “And I'll go on waiting just as long as you need me to.”

Crowley had to sincerely wonder whether he was losing his mind. Here was the Almighty Herself, showing up in person to offer him everything he'd ever thought he wanted (from Her, at least,) no strings attached. And even now, he _still_ couldn't stop with the damn questions. “If I decide that I don't...?”

“Well...that would hurt,” She said, dropping Her own eyes and smiling a bit forlornly. “I've _missed_ you. But nothing much would change. You'd still have Earth, and humanity, and Aziraphale. You and I would just go on our separate ways, the same as we have since the Fall.”

He nodded slowly. “And if I said yes? Would I,” he grimaced, rolling his eyes Heavenward. “Would I become an angel again? Report back for duty Up There?” He couldn't help but chuckle, imagining the look on Gabriel's face—never mind Beelzebub and Hastur, when they heard--but...

“Is that what you'd want?” God asked, raising Her eyebrows.

“Honestly, no.” He shook his head. “You're right, I wasn't happy there. Even back in the old days, it was boring as—well, it was just really, really dull. Food wasn't that good. And the place has only got less appealing since.” He smiled resignedly. “Besides, that whole harp and halo, prancing around the clouds aesthetic never really was _me.”_

“I agree.” She nodded. “Earth is where you belong. You've more than earned your place here.”

He shrugged slightly. “So—would anything change, really?"

“Well, mostly,” She reached out and lightly tapped the center of his chest, “you'd feel my Presence again, all the time, in here. The way you used to.”

“Oh. Yeah, I remember...” he murmured, wondering how that hadn't occurred to him before. Maybe he'd just written off any possibility of hope about that to the point that he couldn't even bear to contemplate it.

“You can manage without it, I know. Not so bad once you get used to it, right?” But the look in Her eyes told him that She knew better.

Angels were _made_ to need that sense of Her Presence; without it, they felt forever incomplete, something vital always _missing_ no matter how much pleasure or comfort they found elsewhere.

It was half-true, what he'd told Aziraphale: he'd long since grown accustomed to that aching emptiness, and he knew how to live with it. Whenever he was busy and distracted, especially if the angel was near him, he could ignore it. Sometimes, these days, in his most contented moments, he almost managed to forget it entirely. _(Almost.)_

But when he was alone, particularly late at night—not every night, but often enough; sometimes even if Aziraphale was there, but sleeping, as he'd begun to do more often now—then it was a different story. He'd lie there staring at the ceiling, restlessly shift to any surface that seemed worth a try, or prowl around the flat or the bookshop, as though it was a physical discomfort that could be relieved if he just found the right position or the right way to move.

That never worked, of course. At best, it amounted to a sort of sketchy self-soothing behavior he resorted to because there simply wasn't any alternative (other than seeking out Aziraphale at some ridiculous hour or waking him up, and yes, he'd done that a few times, too.)

On his very worst days, which were thankfully rare since the Apocalypse hadn't happened, large quantities of alcohol would blunt his awareness of it somewhat. But it didn't touch the Absence itself.

To not have to deal with that anymore...to have that painful crack in his chassis finally sealed up and be made whole again...there was really only one word that came to mind for that proposition.

“Mother, are you,” he asked after a moment, forced to smile ironically, “are you _tempting_ me?”

“Is it possible to tempt someone with something that's been theirs all along?” She countered.

“ _Touché. ..._ oi, wait a minute.” He straightened up. “What about the others, then?”

She glanced away, Her face growing sorrowful. “The other demons?”

“Yeah. I could've come back to You anytime I wanted, You said. Is it the same deal with them?”

She sighed. “Well, yes...and no. With them it's a little more complicated.” She turned back to him. “They didn't just reject me or Heaven, Crowley. They turned their backs on the very idea of love. They murdered their fellow angels and tried to kick me out of my own Creation. And they're still _proud_ of all that.”

“So I get handed a VIP pass, but they're all out of luck?” He frowned, discomfited at that. “I mean, no disrespect. It couldn't happen to a nicer lot, but...I dunno, somehow that still doesn't seem quite fair.”

“You're the only demon alive who'd even give that a moment's thought. I won't say the rest are beyond hope,” She said. “There's _always_ hope. Even for Lucifer, slim as it might be. But if any of them do make it, it will be a long hard road yet. I'm not going to try to force something on them that they don't want, or aren't ready to accept.”

“Yeah, but--I got sent up here early on. They've all been stuck in Hell all this time. It's not like they really had a chance,” he protested.

“Haven't they?” She smiled somberly. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Crowley gave Her a bleak smile in return. “A secret imparted by the Almighty? Come on...you know there's no way I can turn _that_ down.”

“Hell is Hell because that's what the Fallen have made of it,” She said softly. “I know what a terrible place it was, back in the Beginning. It would never have been Paradise. But it didn't have to be Perdition, either. If they'd reached out to one another--chosen to care for and trust one another--it could have been so very different. It still could, even now. But first they have to make that choice.”

“They'll never do it,” he said. “There's not a teaspoonful of compassion in the whole lot. But Heaven's no better. I mean—You know everything, You must've seen what they were planning. What they tried to do...” Crowley broke off, flexing one hand restlessly and trying to subliminate the anger that welled up at the memory.

“Heaven is another matter.” She glanced upward, and the look on Her face made Crowley suddenly very glad that he _wasn't_ an angel anymore. “You were correct, Crowley: the Apocalypse was a test. But not just of humanity. Most of my children passed. Those who didn't...” She folded Her hands together and turned back to him, the picture of serenity once more. “Well, I still have a few more visits to make tonight.”

He suppressed a shudder. “Give Gabriel and Sandalphon my regards. If there's anything left of them when you're done.”

“You needn't concern yourself with them,” She said crisply. “They're going to have much more immediate problems than you and Aziraphale.”

“Thanks for that.” He cleared his throat, thinking a subject change might be in order. “About what You said, though. I don't have to decide right this minute, yeah?”

“As long as you need,” She repeated.

“Good. It'll take some thinking on. 'cause, I mean, _all the time...”_ He chuckled self-consciously. “That could get a bit awkward.”

“Mm-hmm. You do realize,” She said, very drily, “that I've been with Aziraphale from the beginning.”

“Oh, _geez,_ Mum,” he grumbled, covering his eyes and blushing bright crimson to the roots of his hair as She laughed out loud. But it was a sweet, buoyant laugh, not the stinging mockery he'd endured so often from his Hellish associates. It almost made him want to laugh along with Her, because...well, just _because._

“I'm not a voyeur, Crowley,” She said, and when he risked a glance between his fingers, Her eyes were sparkling merrily, and _kindly._ “But you bring each other so much joy, I'd have to work pretty hard not to notice.”

He dropped his hand, realizing She'd just answered one question that had been nagging at him without his even having to ask. “We do, huh. Both of us.”

“Both of you,” She confirmed, a bit more seriously.

That little bit of reassurance alone would have made this conversation worth having, he decided. “You've given me a lot to think about.”

“I'll leave you to it, then.” She stood up, smoothing down the front of Her flowing dress. Crowley rose with Her out of old, _old_ force of habit.

“No matter what you decide you want to do,” She added, “just remember that I love you both very much.”

Physically incapable of summoning up a response to that, Crowley just nodded, letting Her draw him down and plant a soft kiss on his forehead. Looking back on it later, he'd realize that She'd had to stand on tiptoe to do it.

“Keep asking questions, Crowley.” She took a step back, eyes alight with a sudden glint of michief. “And right now, the one you should probably be asking is 'How do I get to the shop in time to make our dinner reservation?'”

“Wh—oh, for the--” Crowley looked down at his ridiculously expensive watch, realizing with a jolt of alarm that he was, in fact, running late.

When he looked up again, he was standing alone, directly in front of the wreath-festooned door of A.Z. Fell & Co.

“Thanks,” he murmured, glancing upward, and huffed as he saw that a gentle, lazy snowfall had begun. Which hadn't been in this evening's forecast. “Well, _that's_ a bit theatrical, isn't it?”

The shop door opened, and Aziraphale peered out, resplendent in a hideous knitted scarf and mittens. “Crowley?” He smiled tentatively. “Oh, hello. I _thought_ I heard you. Whyever are you standing out here by yourself, dear boy? Is everything all right? We're nearly late...”

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry. Everything's fine. I was just—woolgathering.” Crowley wasn't quite ready to share what had happened, though he knew he might be letting himself in for a scolding whenever he did get around to explaining it. He needed some time to process it all, first.

“You ready to go? I—oh, friggin' heck, the _car...”_ he groaned, remembering belatedly that he'd left her sitting back at his flat.

Aziraphale blinked, leaning slightly sideways to look past him. “The car?” he prompted. “What about it?”

Crowley turned and looked behind him. The Bentley was sitting sedately right in its accustomed parking spot, lightly dusted with fresh snow. Across the muted quiet of the winter's evening, he caught the faint pinging sounds of cooling metal, as though the engine had just been shut down.

“Oh, well now You're just showing off.”

“I'm sorry, what?” Aziraphale had stepped in closer, looking up at him with a slightly concerned frown. “Crowley? Are you quite sure you're feeling up to going out tonight, dear?”

Crowley shook his head, smiling at the angel apologetically. “I'm fine. Don't worry. Just had a bit of an odd day, that's all. I'll tell you about it later. C'mon, if we hurry we can still make it on time.”

Aziraphale didn't seem quite convinced, but he shut and locked the bookshop door and let Crowley escort him to the Bentley. “I do hope by 'hurry,' you don't mean traveling a hundred and twenty miles an hour in Central London, in a snowstorm, at night.”

“Nah, not more than a hundred and five, tops.” Crowley grinned.

“Oh, dear...”

“Relax, angel.” Opening the passenger-side door for him, the demon smiled wryly to himself. “I've a notion nothing too bad's going to happen tonight.”

**Author's Note:**

> Readers of some of my prior work may notice that my take on the God of the Good Omens universe has changed significantly since 2008. This is partly a function of the new material presented in the TV show and all the fandom discussion it's generated, and partly the passage of more than a decade in the real world.
> 
> But the underlying premise really hasn't changed too much: at the end of the day, The Almighty loves them, and They know what They are doing.


End file.
